


Wild Lavender

by SneakyBunyip



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope, Star Wars: Tarkin - James Luceno
Genre: Life on Eriadu, Parallels, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 18:41:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16959423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SneakyBunyip/pseuds/SneakyBunyip
Summary: Tarkin visits the Hill of Wild Lavender in three phases of his life. The hill never changes and somehow neither has he.





	Wild Lavender

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my bestie, dustorming, who has a Rebel Heart, but showed me The Wilds by Mumford and Sons because it reminded them of Tarkin. I listened to it on loop while writing this fic.   
> [The Wilds](https://youtu.be/4P7mLMumOrw)  
> \- Mumford and Sons
> 
> Follow me on tumblr: [SneakyBunyip](http://sneakybunyip.tumblr.com/)  
> 

The child sits on a hill of wild lavender and wonders if he will starve to death. 

He wears a vest that he made himself, a vest he believed could keep him safe on the Carrion Plateau. It did not. It hangs tattered and bloody on his thin body. The pockets are worn and useless, the fabric too weak, as he is too weak. 

It seems neither can survive this world. 

It has been days since he has eaten anything. Uncle Jova told him not to return without food. The rabbits are too clever, the birds too quick, and the larger prey far too terrifying.

The child curls into a ball, disappearing amidst tall stalks. The lavender’s gentle fragrance is thick in the air. It shields him from the rotten stink of the wild lands, giving him respot from his slow death and allowing a few moments of peace. 

If he died here, he would become part of the lavender hill, and it’s a comforting thought. 

_ But if I die here, Uncle Jova would be disappointed _ . 

It is this thought that prompts the child to sit up again.

The lavender bends lazily as the wind picks up, the velvety petals batting at the child’s wet, tear-stained cheeks, tickling them, drying them. 

The child plucks one of the stalks and, in a moment of blind impulse, eats the raw bulb. 

The strong floral flavor is mixed with the acrid taste of dirt, but it is food and his stomach gurgles for only a moment before accepting this gift.

The child plucks another stalk, and then another. He eats the flowers, and with each raw bulb consumed the pangs of hunger are eased a little more. 

The child learns something this day. 

The Plateau provides, if one knows how to accept its gifts.

The child looks at this world with new eyes, and feels hope fill him. 

If these slender stalks and delicate flowers can survive in his land, then so can he.

He picks up his small knife, and starts his hunt once again...

...but first, he grabs a handful of lavender and shoves them in the remaining pocket of his vest.

Just in case.

\-----

The hunter crouches on a hill of wild lavender and knows he will eat well tonight. 

He wears the striped furs and mottled hides of prey and predators alike. They hang off his body that, while still thin, holds an agile power in lean muscle. He is the swift arrow, the unbending spear, the apex predator against the natural order of things.

He drops the clawcat’s carcass and sits beside it. Both creatures are bloody and beaten, but it is only the hunter that still breathes. 

Catching his breath, the hunter looks out at a vast landscape of crimson canyons and sienna hills. It is sparsely blessed with life for those who survive long enough to find it, who are strong enough to pursue it. 

The hunter is master of this plateau, but only at the plateau’s will. The plateau provides, but at a cost. If the hunter survives his wounds, they would join the rest of his scars from hard-won battles. Every day is a battle in this land, a battle he has no intention of losing.

He survives. He adapts. He conquers. 

The hunter’s fingers glide over the lavender stalks, the leaves are velvety, the petals soft. On a whim he plucks the plant and bites the bulb. He has not done this in years, not since that first night, when he ate himself sick of these flowers before finding the strength to catch his first rabbit. The puny creature’s foot still hangs from his belt, decades later.

The child learns to survive, the hunter learns how to thrive. In the coming decades it is expected of him to conquer more than just these lands.

That time seems far away, useless speculation that serves no purpose on the plateau where immediate survival is key. 

He pushes thoughts of the future aside. 

For now he feasts.  

The hunter rises to his feet, slings the predator’s carcass over his strong, narrow shoulders with minimal effort. 

He makes his way down the hill to rejoin his uncle... 

...but first, he grabs a handful of lavender and shoves them in the remaining pocket of his vest.

Just in case.

\-----

The grand moff stands over a hill of wild lavender and finds he is no longer hungry.

He wears a uniform of his own design, gone are the hides of his prey, and yet his new garments are still borne from the blood of his enemies. 

The galaxy bends to his will, just as life bends to that of the Carrion Plateau.

_ Is there nothing left? _ He wonders.  _ Is my story over? _

There was a time when this land was everything to him: his teacher, his guardian, his greatest enemy, his greatest love.

Part of him misses the simplicity of all this. Survival was the only goal. The here and now, his only concern. Still, the galaxy is nothing more than a larger plateau for him to survive and dominate: its assassins as deadly as any veermok roost, its politicians as deceitful as any camouflaged viper. 

At the twilight of his life, the grand moff reminds himself that the plateau still provides for him. Perhaps not in sustenance, nor shelter, but the lessons learned here carried him through his life.

He is a legend in his own time.

And yet the plateau will always be his mentor. If given the chance, she would return him to the earth no matter the rank he holds with the rest of the galaxy.

It means nothing to the Carrion Plateau.

Once, the child took comfort in knowing if he died among the wild lavender, he would become part of this tranquil hill. 

Today there is no comfort.

The galaxy owned his life now, despite his heart belonging to this unforgiving wilderness.

Once he left this familiar hill, he will not return, devoting the rest of his days to the will of a greater force in the galaxy: The Empire,  _ his  _ Empire... 

...but first…

Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin kneels down and gathers a handful of lavender. 

He secures the fragrant buds in his polished leather pouch.

Just in case.


End file.
